


Taking Stock

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24057343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley wasn't enjoying the bookshop inventory, until he spied an unusual entry in Aziraphale's database.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 126





	Taking Stock

_Why_ , Crowley thought as he stared at the clunky old computer’s database, _why did I let the powers of a persuasive angel drag me into this?_

“Two copies of _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” Aziraphale called out from the main room of the bookshop. “One first edition in near fine condition, and the second is a third edition in good condition, slightly foxed, in two volumes.” 

There was a pause. “Crowley? Did you get those?”

Crowley stared at the antiquated monitor. “Er…um….”

“ _Austen_. A – U –“

“Yeah, yeah, I know how to spell it.” He wasn’t illiterate. In fact, Crowley secretly enjoyed reading, always had, but the key word was _secretly_. No need to let the world know that. It didn’t fit his demonic image.

As he scrolled back up to the A authors, he wondered if he still needed a demonic image, since he had more or less been dismissed by the forces of Hell. After all, he wasn’t _doing_ anything of that nature any longer. No tempting, no mischief, not even a single wile, although he _had_ conjured up a parking space directly in front of the bookshop, which must count for _something_. 

And he did like wearing black. Always a good look for him.

“Crowley?”

Oh, yeah. Jane bloody Austen. He found the entries for the two books and entered a Y in the proper field. “Yes. Got those.”

_Inventory_. Honestly. Why had he agreed to help Aziraphale conduct an inventory of the entire stock of books, simply because a few new ones had popped up since the shop’s miraculous restoration? 

“Those were obvious,” Aziraphale had explained. “Right out in the open. What if there are other changes that aren’t so easy to see? I have to know! And it would be so much simpler if you ticked off Yes or No while I read out the titles. It’s all in the database – all of the books that were here before the fire. We’ll just go through them, and when it’s all finished, I’ll know if anything is missing or new.”

And then the devious bastard had raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and put forth his best pleading expression with an extra dose of angelic hopefulness added in just for kicks.

How could he refuse?

“ _Sense and Sensibility_ ,” Aziraphale called out. “Second edition, in three volumes, contemporary binding.”

More Austen. _Yay_. At least he was keeping to the A authors. For the first hour or so of this annoying project, Crowley had been forced to scroll up and down thousands of entries as his dear but irksome friend jumped from Byron to Keats to Wordsworth. Apparently the former Antichrist had no sense of keeping things alphabetical.

Though, to be fair, it might have been a certain angel’s way of confusing and frustrating potential customers – keeping the books out of order.

“I believe that’s the last of the A titles in this section, my dear. Perhaps we should take a tea break?”

“Whatever.” Crowley hit Save, and then decided to scroll down to the start of the B authors when his eye fell on an unexpected name on the screen.

_Aziraphale_. 

He blinked, and rubbed his eyes. Since when did the angel write books?

But when he looked again, the name was still there, in the Author field. In the next field was the title _Memoirs_. And in the next column, for _Location_ , he read the note, _Attic._

Since when did the bookshop have an attic?

“Er…um…Angel?”

He looked round. Aziraphale had gone over to the kitchenette to make tea, and was humming as he worked.

Crowley rose, stretched his aching arms, and sauntered over. He leaned against the counter. “Where’s the attic?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the tea kettle. “Attic? What attic?”

“ _Your_ attic. Here. The bookshop attic. The one where you store your memoirs. _That_ attic.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

The kettle hovered in mid-air above the tea pot. “Well, it’s upstairs.”

“Of course it’s up the bloody stairs! I’ve been upstairs. Never noticed an attic entrance before.” Crowley nodded at the kettle. “Are you going to steep the tea in this century?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” A very flustered angel poured the water into the pot, set the kettle down, and put the tea pot lid and cosy on, taking his time with each movement. “There. Give it five minutes, I think.”

Crowley glanced upwards. “Plenty of time to show me the way.”

“Absolutely not!”

Crowley grinned. “But I want to see your memoirs.”

“Out of the question.”

“Really? Why – too personal? Angel, I’ve known you for six thousand years. I hardly think there’s anything about you that I don’t already know.” Or maybe there was. “What’s so secret in your memoirs you don’t want me to see? Did you write about your secret craving for bodice rippers or something?”

“For _what?”_ Aziraphale frowned. “Go sit down. I am not showing you the attic.”

“Right.” Crowley shrugged and crossed to the sofa, where he sprawled out in his usual languid fashion. “I’ll just find it by myself, then. Next time you’re at the barbershop.”

“You will do no such thing.” Aziraphale fiddled about with the tea cups in a completely unnecessary manner. “They’re _private_.”

“When did you start writing your memoirs?”

“Not that long ago. A few years. Well, relatively speaking.”

“ _When?”_

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “It doesn’t matter, because as I said, they are for my eyes only. Now, do please drop this.”

“Is that even remotely likely to happen, Angel?”

There was a lengthy silence before he got an answer.

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale replied with obvious annoyance.

Crowley smiled. “So give over, then. _Why_ are you writing anything at all about your past? What’s the _point?”_

His friend sighed. “This is my fault, isn’t it? I should never have listed them in the database, but I _do_ so like to be thorough. I should have erased it before asking for your help, but I forgot it was in there. And now you aren’t going to give it a moment’s peace.” He sighed again. “You _vex_ me.”

“Part of a demon’s job description, vexing angels.”

“Yes, well, you are out of work now.” Aziraphale smiled softly. “Your vexing days should be over.”

Crowley was enjoying this banter immensely. “Be honest. You liked being vexed by me.”

“Possibly.”

“You _did_. Too much goodness and light and happy joyful angelic deeds can get a bit boringly repetitive after a while, am I right? After the one millionth blessing, they all start to seem the same, and constantly setting a sterling example starts to lose its excitement when everyone around you is having slightly questionable _fun_ all the time, yes? So there I was, hanging around the edges, being disreputable, and you couldn’t resist popping over to see what I was up to, could you? Come on, admit it. You _wanted_ to spice things up from time to time, and who better to add spice than your handy local demon?”

He watched as Aziraphale slowly poured out the tea, and then added milk to his own cup, and milk and sugar to Crowley’s. He put the cups on a tray, to which he carefully added a small plate of chocolate biscuits.

Then he set it on the coffee table, and came round to join Crowley on the sofa.

“It seems you do know me all too well.” Aziraphale picked up his cup to take a long sip. “ _Ah_. Perfect.”

Crowley took up his own tea, and yes, it was fixed precisely the way he liked it. “Goes two ways, Angel.”

“Yes, I rather think it does.” Aziraphale ate one of the biscuits, and washed it down with more tea. 

Crowley drank a bit, then set down the cup. He lay a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. “I always looked forward to them, you know. All the times you turned up. Got just as tedious, performing temptations _ad nauseam_. Loved it when you came along to shine a little brightness into my days.”

“Brightness?” Aziraphale set down his tea. He rested his hand atop Crowley’s. “Yes. That’s precisely the idea. You see, what I figured out, my dear fellow, fairly early on, is that there is no light without darkness, and no darkness without light. Each one complements the other. It couldn’t be any other way.”

Crowley’s throat tightened a little at the contact between them. “Made for each other, then, weren’t we?”

“Yes. Even when vexing one another. That, too, went both ways.”

“Of course it did.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his then, and squeezed it, and then started rubbing his thumb over the top. “I started writing down a few memories and thoughts in 1941. Plenty of important things happened between us before that, naturally, especially the Arrangement. But 1941 was the year when I realized that you weren’t on Earth merely to keep me company.”

“No?” A warm quivering sensation filled Crowley’s body. He stared at their joined hands. He’d known what his purpose on Earth had been from the very beginning – to keep close to the one being who had been kind to him there, to hold tight to the only friendship that could possibly last, and to follow love wherever it led him.

He brought their clasped hands to his lips and kissed Aziraphale’s fingers. “What was I here for, then?”

Aziraphale looked at him, and he smiled. “You were here to love me, and to be loved.” He returned the gesture, bringing their hands to his own lips, and brushing a light kiss across Crowley’s fingers. “You were here to remind me that good and evil weren’t entirely opposites – that you and I walked in the gray areas in between, that the work we did on Earth didn’t simply cancel out, but overlapped.”

He let go his hand to trace his fingers down Crowley’s cheek. “You were meant to show me how to love both the dark and the light. And that’s what I put in my memoirs.”

Then he leaned in to brush his lips against Crowley’s, a touch that shivered through him and then was gone. 

Aziraphale looked at him with an affection beyond measure. “Do you still want to see them?”

Crowley shook his head, amazed at the depth of Aziraphale’s love. “No. I don’t need to see them.” He reached out to place a hand on his friend’s chest. “I can read them in here just fine.”

“Good.” Aziraphale kissed him again, a little longer, though not nearly long enough. “Because there _are_ a few things I put down in them which you truly _don’t_ need to know.”

“Oh, don’t say that.” He couldn’t just let that slide. “That’s right up there with a neon sign saying ‘don’t touch the apples’.”

Aziraphale shifted even closer, and wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist. “But I _trust_ you not to go against my wishes, my dear.”

“No fair. What are you doing, going around trusting a demon?”

“You’re not demonic. You’re unemployed, remember?”

“Yeah, well…should keep a hand in once in a while.” What in the world could Aziraphale have put in his memoirs that he wanted to keep secret? He’d already spelled out the biggest thing, as far as Crowley was concerned, which was the admission of his love for a certain wily adversary. “How about if we trade? You tell me one of your deep dark secrets, and I’ll tell you one of mine.”

Aziraphale nestled his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “They are neither deep nor dark. Merely, well, silly.”

“Embarrassing?”

“I’m an angel. We don’t get embarrassed.”

“You do. I’ve seen you embarrassed.”

“When?”

“1896. The beach at Bognor. You were changing your clothes in one of those bathing machines in the water when the door accidentally popped open and exposed you in the altogether to a group of young ladies.”

“Well, really. They didn’t need to _laugh_ so loudly.”

“Made _me_ laugh.” He’d been in the water already, enjoying the show from afar. “So what is in your memoir that’s silly? Or are you still insisting that I don’t need to know?”

Aziraphale started caressing Crowley’s chest as he nestled there, and that nearly made Crowley forget all about his friend’s little secrets. He wrapped an arm around the angel and returned the gentle touch.

“You first, then,” Aziraphale said.

“Hm?”

“Trade.”

“Oh, that. Right.” Crowley racked his brain for something stupid or silly or embarrassing or just odd that he’d never told his friend before. “Um…ah. I’ve got it. Did you know that I’ve read all of Austen?” He paused. “And _liked_ it?”

“Really?” Aziraphale lifted his head to beam at him. “That’s wonderful. Not silly at all, my dear.”

“Fine. Your turn.”

“Well, I suppose if I must, I must.”

Crowley waited. 

And waited.

Aziraphale’s brow was creased in concentration, and he lightly bit his lower lip. 

“Any century now, Angel.”

“You are not a very patient person.”

“Just how many silly admissions are you mentally scrolling through before deciding which one to share?”

“Do stop vexing me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But he was so _good_ at it. “I will when you will.”

“Fine. It was 1967. You berated me about my fashion sense again, so I went to Carnaby Street one day when you were out of town, and I bought a paisley jacket in bright green and yellow, and wore it the whole day.”

“You didn’t.” The bastard! “And I _missed_ it?”

“I was gawked at and giggled at by young people! It didn’t suit me at all. I donated it to charity.”

“Oh, that’s a crime. I want to see you in paisley.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

Crowley laughed lightly. “And that’s the sort of thing you wrote down in your memoirs that you don’t want to share? Silly bugger.” He brushed a hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “In that case, I’ll definitely pass on ever reading them.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s sorted.” Aziraphale stretched a little. “I believe the tea break is over. We should get back to work.”

They managed to untangle themselves, much to Crowley’s regret. “No more snuggling on the sofa? I was enjoying that.”

“As was I.” Aziraphale stood, and ran his hand over his wrinkled clothes. “However, as much I would love to continue those delightful expressions of affection, I’m afraid the inventory isn’t going to get done all by itself.”

Crowley groaned, resigned to more eyestrain as he scrolled through thousands of database entries. He started to push himself off the sofa, until a demonically brilliant idea lit up his brain.

Why _couldn’t_ the inventory get done by itself?  
And what difference did it make if he wasn’t employed by Hell anymore?

He grinned, and snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale turned at the sound. “What did you just do?”

“Look at the database and you’ll see.”

Aziraphale walked over to the desk and studied the monitor where, Crowley knew, he would see every record for every book marked Y or N. The inventory was, indeed, completed in a nice and accurate fashion, with the help of a little demonic miracle.

“I see.” Aziraphale slowly walked back to the sofa and sank down beside him, looking a little forlorn. “I was having a good time looking over my books again, you know.”

“Sorry.” Crowley pulled him into an embrace. “I can mess it all up for you in about a week, if you’d like.”

“A week? Why a week?”

“Because it will be at least that long before I get done with my own personal inventory of a certain angel’s charms – all the way from A to Z.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled softly. “Do get on with it, then, my dear.”

And with that, Crowley kissed him, quite thoroughly, with every intention of continuing such explorations long into the afternoon, evening, and night, and for many days and nights to come.


End file.
